


A Treatise on Faerghus Traditions, Rituals of the Old North and Customs of Tribal Law

by Antartique



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Claude messes up badly, Cultural Differences, Headcanon galore, Lorenz is the only sane one in this family somehow, Marriage Proposal, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2020-10-25 19:20:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20729432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antartique/pseuds/Antartique
Summary: Claude knows some things:1) Faerghus is acomplete disaster, but it still stands, so clearly that disaster works somehow.2) Dimitri and Byleth are happily married with a kid of three months, who he has not met yet, and who he really wants to meet.3) Four years ago, he accidentally proposed to theroyal couple of Fódlanandwalked off, and no one told himbecause they all hate him and want him to die.He is off to a great start.





	1. A Prologue, or the Beginning of Disaster

**Author's Note:**

> **Based on ideas from MsBBell’s Discord server.**
> 
> Also knowns as the many hilarious misunderstandings, unknowing offenses and attempted assassinations that Claude von Riegan goes through as he tries to earn the favor of the Royal Couple of Fódlan, in order to marry them.
> 
> For unification. Yes. That’s definitely the only reason.
> 
> **Featuring:** a book written by a long-suffering romantic, the infamous Gloucester-Fraldarius alliance, Faerghus traditions and rituals, many grudges of historic relevance, _giant_ Almyran fauna, and a crowd of stressed attendants. Also, Leicester teatimes, because _**tea**_.

Dimitri thinks he knows how engagement works. 

That is, he thinks he is right. He is pretty sure some of the things he got told were made-up (by Sylvain, because who gives _ flowers _to the girl they like?), plain lies (sitting on your spouse-to-be seems like a dangerous hobby, Glenn- shut up already, I’m right, you’re wrong) or actually foreign (rings haven’t been exchanged in Faerghus since the early 800s, Lady Rhea, no matter what the church says). 

However, he knows one tradition, and that tradition remains strong in his head. It is why he gave El a dagger (so she will protect herself from her unwanted suitors, as family does), why Ingrid left her betrothal lance at home (would not want to give a wrong impression to others, even if she is technically available), why Felix _ only _ ever uses his rapier for the strongest of linked spells (Sylvain keeps claiming it is not a betrothal weapon, but everyone knows by now). It is also why the Professor and himself use each other’s weapons without distinction, since they belong to the both of them-

(Or at least, he hopes that is why. He hasn’t actually proposed, but his intentions have been clear for a while, haven’t they? Is he making a mistake? Byleth would have told him if he did something stupid, right... Besides, he does have that bell.)

-and, well.

So he knows his customs, he knows traditions. He was raised in Faerghus, which is very different from the rest of Fódlan, but it is close enough that, surely, some things are the same. Especially with the Alliance, as they were part of Faerghus once, and it wasn’t that long ago.

Then, he cannot, for the love of all Fódlan, the Goddess and the Lord of War too, figure out _ _what is Claude thinking by giving his bow to Byleth._ _

(Lorenz, behind Dimitri and next to Ingrid, raises a hand to rub his temples. Ingrid herself is ready to throw Lúin at Claude, nevermind Lúin is not made for throwing. Ashe has to hold her back. Sylvain whistles, because he thinks all this is very amusing. 

Felix wants to hit them all, because _we just got Dimitri to calm down__._)

Dimitri does what he does best. Well, maybe not what he does best, but accidentally ruining Claude’s schemes is one of his skills (according to some), and so before the Professor can take the bow, he reaches from behind Byleth and grabs it first.

“Thank you, Claude,” he tries to smile, but he knows it is not working -he hears Hilda whisper _holy shit _from somewhere, so he assumes he looks rightfully angry-

But Claude does not. care. He just, smiles, bright and _blinding how can someone look like gold itself_\- and says:

“Great! You two will use it more than me.”

(It is a moment of enlightenment to some, with Lorenz throwing his hands up _-that’s it, I’m done here, I’m done with this_-, Sylvain almost falls on his face from how hard he is laughing, Annette’s spell dissolves as she squeals against Mercedes shoulder. Dedue is almost taking out his planning notebook to add in a whole country to the invitation list-

Felix still wants to hit them all, because this _will_ end badly, he just knows, he asks Ashe to nock an arrow but he is _being ignored_-)

And Byleth is smiling, some soft response in their lips, as Dimitri runs some old memories and history facts trying to remember if this is legal, he is pretty sure it happened once before the Church was a thing, but Byleth is the _Archbishop_ and they cannot just bend the laws as they want, but-

And then Claude leaves.


	2. The Treatise, or Why Do All My Friends Want Me To Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lorenz is the MVP, because he is the _only one_ who bothered to extensively study Faerghus law.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can take the headcanons in this chapter from my cold dead hands. Also I'm trying to do short chapters?

Four years later, Claude understands just how badly he messed up.

Hilda did not tell him, not even when he dragged her all the way to Almyra two years ago to help with his _ siblings’ _ stupidity. She just stayed quiet, occasionally looking at him with narrowed eyes when he mentioned prospective wives, and also ignoring all his casual flirting like she had never done before. Ignatz and Raphael and Marianne _ definitely _ don’t tell him, even when he meets them midways to discuss trading agreements and other matters of importance. Leonie would not have known, and he has yet to meet Lysithea since the end of the war.

The realization comes _ late_. Far too late, but in his defense he had been too busy trying to get Almyra to recognize his legitimacy and to get over their xenophobia -it is a work in progress. Not that it helps him at all, because when he knocks on Lorenz’s door (well, rather, when the butler shows him to the drawing room Lorenz waits for him in), he is immediately hit on the head by a heavy book in a white and blue cover.

_ A Treatise on Faerghus Traditions, Rituals of the Old North and Customs of Tribal Law, _by Alexei Konrad Gloucester.

He takes the book in his hands and opens it to a random page, where there is a drawing of an intricately carved spoon. _ Love spoon_, it reads. _ A traditional symbol of a romantic union according to Tribal Law, they are still held in high regard in most of Faerghus. It is a custom mostly observed in western regions, although they are often presented in engagement rituals alongside betrothal weapons. The one pictured above represented the union between Rodion Gautier and Tanya of Rowe, Year 517 of the Empire. _

It is a pretty spoon, he guesses. But that doesn’t explain why Lorenz gave him the book at all.

“Okay?” He is looking at his old friend, who holds his quill above the paperwork he is working on with ridiculous stillness. Hilda, next to him, is laughing behind a forkful of cake.

“Turn to the weapons chapter, if you so please- Actually, read the whole thing, right here.” Lorenz’s face has never been so blank. It is eerie. The lack of over-the-top gesturing makes some features of his more noticeable, like the subtle eye bags under his eyes (he is probably wearing makeup too, the vain bastard) and the oddly rustic earring dangling from his left lobe.

“The _ whole _ thing!?” It must be at least 500 pages long! And it doesn’t look at all fun: one page has a diagram of a body displaying _ scar runes_, if he can go by the inscription under it. “I just came to greet the princeling, why are you doing this to me.” Still, he goes to the oddly extensive index, turns to the section on weapons (eyes widening, because it is _ long_. It takes up about a fourth of the book!) and reads.

What he gets from it, is that Faerghus is seriously messed up. Seriously. So, if he gives Hilda a- what is it, a _ dagger shorter than his forearm, in its sheath, gifted with both hands, with the handle facing left_, he is claiming her as family, but if he gives it to her with the handle facing right, he is declaring an amicable rivalry? A _ weapon with a white tassel (see the chapter on tassels), gifted in private, shows an equal status between both parties_, but _ a decorate weapon with a white tassel, gifted in public, denotes respect and reverence_?

“How has Faerghus been at peace, how do people not accidentally humiliate someone or _ declare a war _ with all these-“

“It happens often,” Lorenz drawls, the scratch of his quill stalling for a second. “Faerghus has inner disputes between regions often enough, it is practically a sport by now.”

“Is _ that _ why Felix always challenged everyone he saw?” At his words, Hilda snort, very unladylike. Claude throws her a _ look_, and she waves her fork around -it is a new slice, chocolate this time. Lorenz throws her a glare: Claude is pretty sure Hilda just insulted them both in Adrestian.

“No, he is just a Fraldarius. I am related to the man and I have no idea what goes on through his head- Oh, but I do know he wants to kill you, or at least present you well cooked to the King.”

And Claude does not know how to interpret that right now.

He stops reading. Something about Lorenz’s words sends a warning ringing to his brain, like a realization that comes too late, or a really heavy blow to the head. 

Claude looks at him closely, at some things that had always seemed so… not-Lorenz, but that he had never really thought about: how he always looks ready to bolt off his seat, the small knife always hidden under his jacket, the messy handwriting that he saves exclusively for his personal notes. And then there are those things that are not visible right now, but that made up _ Lorenz _ back in Garreg Mach: the way he would down a whole mug or glass of that strong, _disgustingly strong_ alcohol without a care (which bought him lots of points with Leonie, Raphael and, surprisingly, Marianne, but not so many with Lysithea or Claude himself), or how he always seemed ready to test himself against Ferdinand in just about every skill they shared, or how he always sat in the mess hall in a way he could have his _ friends _in sight…

He had never thought much about it. Fódlan had some eccentricities around and questioning them would have betrayed him as a _ foreigner_, and while people were quite open minded in Garreg Mach (there was Petra, and Shamir, and Cyril) he hadn’t wanted to be outcast just yet. So he acted like they were normal, everyday things, even when they most definitely were _ not_. He had seen Ferdinand, Linhardt and _ Bernadetta _ casually drinking _ black wine _ at dinner, while Caspar shared a lighter one with Petra. He had seen Seteth dueling _ Rhea _ in the middle of the night, with swords and axes and their _ fists_, with Flayn cheering while she cast heal spells for them both. He had once gone hunting with Leonie and Petra, and found Sylvain, Dimitri and _ Marianne _ chatting about _ economy _ in the middle of a clearing while _ bleeding a whole elk. _

Now, Claude was raised in Almyra. He knows there is some weird, odd, freaky traditions with his homeland as well -he has a collection of sewn scales acting as a tapestry in his room, and one of his eldest sisters is trying to master the art of _ flying on a carpet_, so Fódlan is pretty much just like everything else he has known. He is also distantly related to _ Dimitri and Hilda_, somehow, so he knows familial relations aren’t that important after a few centuries, but somehow the idea of Lorenz and _ Felix Hugo Fraldarius_, two people who are as far from each other in personality as they can be, being related?

It makes him want to ask.

“You and Felix?” Claude just… can’t see it. Sure, their hair might be kind of similar, but apart from that? They are opposites!

“Yes? Did you not know, it is common knowledge.” 

“He is from _ Almyra_, Lorenz, remember, Almyran people don’t care for our politics-“

“He is a Riegan? The Gulf of Derdriu is shared between Fraldarius and Riegan, how do you _ not know_-“

Maybe he should not have asked. He watches Hilda and Lorenz argue about what is common knowledge to foreigners and what can be considered a political _ faux pas _ in the international stage for about a minute (they start talking about wines and how many glasses it is okay to drink before admitting you are drunk. They say it should be more than _two_. Claude is offended: he _ can _ drink, okay, just… not that much), and goes back to the book.

And then he gets to the chapter on _ proposals_. _ A weapon gifted in the battlefield _ is the first hint he gets that he is in for a _ terrible _ ride, but as he continues reading he feels himself shake, all blood leaving his body as Hilda, his _ evil, evil _ best friend laughs at him.

When he is done with that section, he takes a deep breath, closes the book to put it on the table... and throws himself on the couch to cover his head with a pillow, and screams.

And screams.

(Lorenz just gives him a pat on the head.)

Later, _ later_, once he has calmed down and gathered what he calls his war council, he will look at the book (_A Treatise on Faerghus Traditions, Rituals of the Old North and Customs of Tribal Law_, more like _ A Guide on How to Not Accidentally Fuck Up Your Future_, by Alexei Konrad Gloucester) and put it on a pedestal.

He knows some things now:

1) Faerghus is a complete disaster, but it still stands, so clearly that disaster _ works _ somehow.

2) Dimitri and Byleth are happily married with a kid of three months, who he has not met yet, and who he really wants to meet.

3) Four years ago, he accidentally proposed to the royal couple of all of Fódlan and **walked off** , and _ no one told him because they all hate him and want him to die_.

He is off to a great start.

Lorenz is sipping tea from what Claude and Hilda secretly dub his _ I hate you both, leave me alone _ teacup. It is a delicate thing with sharp gold and indigo designs, a thin handle and a tiny saucer than is only big enough for it and, maybe, a sugar cube. He also has his personal maid standing behind his chair, a tray with the matching teapot gently steaming with some fragrant tea that is _ not _ what Claude and Hilda have in their own cups, and half a dozen knives hidden under her skirts.

(He thinks her name is Lena, or Julia, or maybe Sophie? He doesn’t remember, and so he doesn’t talk to her. He is really not in the mood to deal with Lorenz being offended over his maid, once again. As he often does. He once got offended over Claude and Hilda asking him why his _maid_ was training with swords and daggers when she is a _maid_, and since then he has not let them alone with any Gloucester servant ever again.

Claude wonders: is this a Gloucester thing? A Faerghus thing? Lorenz is _unusually_ attached to his servants...)

Claude and Hilda sit on the opposite side of the table, the giant book between them as they review the chapter on babies and how to meet them for the first time (because of course there is a whole chapter for _that_). Their own teacups are of Gloucester quality, but the tea is not shared with their host, so they can’t really talk about it. Lorenz’s insane butler stands behind them, frozen still and silent as death, and it is terrifying as always, but they have become used to it… somewhat.

“Okay, so-”

“Read the book.”

“Right.”

They read the book. There isn’t much they can do, since Lorenz is just ignoring them while seething into his tea. He is writing some or other letter, which he has been working at for hours now: whatever it is, it seems to be important, if the golden leafy corners are anything to go by.

“If you are murdered by the King, can I write your sad, sad tale?” Hilda pokes at his hand with her teacup. Some tea spills. The butler tensing behind them feels like a heavy weight settling on their shoulders, while the maid’s empty and cold stare is like daggers. Lorenz sips at his cup once more. “I will call it, the Almyran King and his failure at proposing to the people he has been pining after for _ six whole years _-“

“Hilda, I love you, but please _ shut up _-“

“Stop wasting my tea and leave already.”

Come night, Claude lays on the bed in one of the guest rooms, staring at the ceiling. 

Had he realized he had messed up so badly, he would have come back earlier -or maybe not, he did have lots of things to do back in Almyra. But still, the idea that he might have to give up on something he has been wanting for _ ages _ does not make him happy. He does not like giving up on things.

He really has to thank Lorenz properly later. Had he not had the initiative to come to Gloucester before heading to Fhirdiad, he would have arrived the young prince’s introduction without the needed gifts or saying the wrong words. Who knows how offended the royal couple will be, if he messes up _ this _ time.

He can't. Not now. Not _now_.

That book is huge, though. He will definitely not finish reading it by the time they have to leave, so he will probably have to focus on what he actually needs. If he ends up accidentally starting a war with, who knows, _ Mercedes _, then…

He will worry about it later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Claude's siblings_: Will go in detail later, but do you really think he _wouldn't_ have siblings?
> 
> _Alexei Konrad Gloucester_: Lorenz many-times-grandfather. He married a lady of the Fraldarius, out of love of course (_'I have never in my life see such beauty and strength, a woman gifted with the Goddess's grace and a Queen's voice... and that leg...'_). After the third time he accidentally offended her by denying her challenges to weekend duels, he set out to gather every single one of Faerghus customs, even the most obscure ones, and dedicated his life to writing **the book**. His whole life. _All of it_. There is lots of customs.
> 
> _Love spoon_: It is an actual thing. Like, in real life.
> 
> _Adrestian dining customs_: Ah yes, the language of cutlery. And wine.
> 
> _Leicester teatime_: Okay, look, they were originally part of _Faerghus_. Where do you think the battlefield and bloodlust went after they became a single country, that's right, it went to passive aggressive teatime.


	3. Dreams, or Why Is Everything I Do Somehow A Bad Omen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Claude plans gifts, makes some disaster contingency plans, and introduces us to his guard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything about this is just Claude being stressed about his staff. Also I'm not happy about that dream sequence.

_ He dreams. _

_ A snow lion stands atop a hill, looking down at a tiny, tiny fawn. Up in the sky, a gray wyvern flaps its wings, climbing higher and higher until its body covers the sun, night falling across the land as stars shape bright constellations in darkening scales. The wyvern opens its mouth, drips of silvery tears gathering at its fangs and shaping up a crescent moon that hangs lower until it crowns the lion, as the mane it does not have. _

_ The fawn kneels, bows, offers a rotting eagle to the ruling beasts. A star falls from the sky, brightening as it takes the shape of a blinding white beast, a sphinx, who leans its head forwards to take the eagle in its mouth. _

_ It _ bleeds _ and bleeds and rots and changes, flying up in a burst of flames. Its long tail feathers follow after it like a reverse meteor shower, and its thrill is like the chiming of bells announcing the beginning of the day. _

_ In the distance, a carnyx call booms. _

“I saw a simurgh,” Claude says to his diviner as soon as he wakes up. 

The woman Dilshad, who has been with him ever since he learned to speak and had enough clarity to recall his dreams, dutifully records his words in yet another journal. She is _ ancient_, wrinkled and wise, eyes as sharp as a hawk and words sharper than that; he is sure that, had she been able to move as easily as in her youth, she would have been the one to train him in his childhood. 

That was not the case, as she can barely walk nowadays. She has barely been able to walk since he was old enough to, running circles around her as she sung tales and legends to him and his milk siblings. If she can be believed, she is at least a hundred years old -and Claude believes her, because he has _ always _ believed her.

“If a simurgh is what you saw, Padishah Khalid, then you must continue this path. Wherever it takes you.” 

He does not even react to the wrong name, distractedly tugging at his sleeves. “It was born from a dead eagle and the fangs of a sphinx, flew towards the sky…”

The dream leaves him on unsteady feet all morning, until Lena or Julia or whatever her name is knocks on the door to call him down. He follows, because there is not much else he can do when in a land not his own, with unknown customs to be righted and misfortune in his future. Misfortune that, should his dreams be right, could bring him fortune? He does not understand.

He does know, however, that he has a huge book to continue reading, gifts to prepare, and a war to wage. Even when that war is against himself, or possibly a whole country after his skin.

It is around lunchtime that he realizes something.

He should apologize. And try to propose again. But apologizing comes first. Probably? He should… try. He has not seen anything in Lorenz’s book that contradicts his traditional way of formal apologies, so after he is done with his food (under the butler’s watch, because he always has someone watching him) he goes out to stalk his guard.

He finds them in one of the many courtyards. For some reason they are all gathered around a puppy, staring at it closely. All six of them. Mahsa is cooing, for the Moon's sake, it looks weird. Tarja, the only one with a brain, is also looking at the puppy, but she stands closer to the wall.

Claude grabs her and pulls her away.

“Khalid-”

“It’s _ Claude. _ And I need your help.”

She looks at him through squinting eyes with an exaggerated frown on her face, a familiar enough expression that makes Claude clap his hands together before his face. They hold a staring contest that lasts all of half a minute before Claude makes his eyes go wide and pouts.

“Please~?”

She slaps him atop the head for his troubles, but she is smiling.

“Alright, _ Claude_. What do you need.”

As he explains his request, her eyes go wider and _ wider_, and her smile grows broader. When he is done, she is practically bouncing on her feet, waving her arms and making aborted motions to hug him.

“Padishah is in _ love~ _ ” She sings, even as Claude drags her away to where the wyverns are resting. “It is _ love_! I will bring the news-” 

“No!” That would be a disaster, his family is a _ disaster_. If his brothers learn of this, or, worse, his _ sisters_, he will go down in history as the King of Three Years because he will kill himself from embarrassment. He can’t do anything about past deeds, but he can hide the future, or something, or he _ could _ if Tarja was being serious. She is still squealing when he hands her the reins, and even the wyvern is starting to shuffle around in excitement. “Listen, this is a _ secret_. I will tell them later, but _ please Tarja don’t ruin this- _”

“Fine.” She mounts quickly, doing a last check of ties and straps and the bundle he so carefully put together for his plans. He hopes this works. A part of it depends on the goodwill and secrecy of his staff, and he knows they are not the most subtle of people. “You owe me though-”

“You work for me-”

“Yeah but I’m your friend-”

"I am your _King-_"

The wyvern raises, and it is loud and familiar, with dust everywhere. Tarja waves at him once she is high enough, before yelling:

“Get me a husband and I’ll be good!”

And she’s gone.

“No silks,” is the first thing _ Hilda_, of all people, tells him when they are picking stuff out of his sky carriage. Ervin, the wyvern rider in charge of it, practically bristles in offense as the fine silks get carelessly thrown into his arms to be put aside. “Silks are Adrestia, what you want is fur and leather. And an axe-“

“A lance, if you please, thank you, Hilda.” Lorenz picks up a chest of spices and moves it closer to Claude. “This should go to Byleth-“

“Why can’t it be an axe, we are not at war? Why do you want war-“

“A _ sword _ is for battle prowess, not a lance. Lances are horsemanship-“

First things first: the young prince’s introduction. The event Claude actually travelled all the way from Almyra to witness, and what he came most prepared for. Traditionally, he is supposed to give gifts: in Almyra, they would be gold, silks and spices, for fortune in trade, but Faerghus is _ not _ Almyra. In Faerghus, he is still supposed to give gifts, but they have _ whole _ different meanings than the ones he is used to.

A sword for battle. A bow for hunting. Apparently, lances for horsemanship and axes for homemaking? The last one makes no sense at all, but it is somehow related to axes and hammers being the main tool to build a house, and… He really does not understand.

“If I may, Padishah Khalid-“

“It is _Claude_, Ervin, I have said this-“

“_Padishah Khalid_.” Every single one of his staff hates him and wants him to forget his name by calling him that. He is _ Claude_. Why can’t they understand. “The roc should still come with us.”

Claude gives an unimpressed look to Ervin. Ervin blandly smiles back. Then, as one, they both turn to the cage holding the tiny, baby roc -tiny by roc standards, that is: it is a distance away, screeching as Dilshad feeds it some mice. The bird seems to sense their looks, as it calms down for a second and waves a wing at them before it goes _ right back to screeching, how- _

“Why did we bring it again?” Claude remembers his own roc when he was small: he was cute, calm, guiding him around his home whenever it was too dark. He stayed cute for a few years, and then he got his first taste of blood in a hunting trip, and he was never cute again.

There is also the small detail that, when he went back to Almyra after dissolving the Alliance, the bird that had been his companion for so long was as tall as Claude himself, and had decided he _and Claude_ most definitely needed to test themselves against battle wyverns. Before he left for Fódlan again, the spoiled bird (not his fault) had randomly decided it wanted to eat open sea fish, and had been gone for at least two months now. And he would keep growing, which was just…

This one though, this one was never cute. It is not even half a year old, and it is already a menace. It stole a sword from his _ belt _ when it was being lured into its cage, and if that is _ not _ a bad omen then he does not know what is. It only calms down when it sleeps or when it senses someone looking at it, and only long enough to fluff its feathers in challenge before it goes back to being insane.

He knows it is custom, but _ must he really_? Is he really going to gift the often pyschopatic, murderous and untrainable royal bird of his homeland, to a baby prince from another nation? Is this what he is doing?

If Dilshad hadn’t been the one to recommend it, he wouldn’t.

“It is _ custom_.”

“Yes, in _ Almyra_-“

“A hunter gifted, Padishah!” Mahsa yells at him from where she is checking the carriage’s harnesses. Her wyvern doesn’t seem to like that and looks about ready to tip the carriage over. Which will be a mess, because he has half his life in that carriage-

Aaaand, there it goes. Mahsa yells from where her wyvern knocked her off her feet with a wing. Dilshad has one glowing hand directed at the carriage, keeping things from spilling, while her other arm is wrapped around the roc’s cage -that definitely does not need to be protected? His cup-bearer, Rayyan, who came with them for reasons less related to keeping assassins busy and more related to stopping Claude from drinking, is silently laughing while trying to save the amphorae from an early demise.

This is the people he chose, ladies and gentlemen and gentlepeople. This is the people he grew up with.

Hilda and Lorenz give him a _ look_. Claude just sighs. 

Somehow, he will make this work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Simurgh, Sphinx, Roc_: It is all symbollic or something. Roc grow slowly, so Claude's is kinda small, and the one in the cage is a baby. 
> 
> _Padishah Khalid_: Padishah means 'emperor' or, well, 'master king'. Khalid is Claude's official name in Almyra, he hates it. His family name is Afshar, making him Khalid Afshar. It is historic. I originally wrote Nader as Claude's real name, but it is changed now; Nader Afshar is _more_ historic than just Afshar, but we do what we can.
> 
> _Sky carriage_: Look they have flying rugs, why not carriages too. They uh, fly. Instead of horses there is wyvern.
> 
> _The attendants_: They all have their own duties. They are also all very close to Claude because they grew up together (for a short while that is, because, xenophobia), and though they do respect him they are more of... family. They will act as our Exposition into Almyra.


	4. Preparations, or How To Find A White Building In A Snowy Mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we head to Faerghus, finally, and see everyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, finally.

Almyra is a large country. Maybe not as large as Fódlan as it is when unified, but definitely larger than Leicester used to be. It is a power of the known world, with its favorable location, being basically in the middle of all other great continents, and while an important part of it was desert, it was thriving.

They also had conquered a large number of the islands surrounding them and it was impossible to make it through the Almyran Sea without, you know, making it through Almyra. Having good relationships with them was important for commerce -unless you were Fódlan. Fódlan had _never_ done anything to build good relationships with any of its neighbours.

And then, somehow, Claude came along.

Yes, he wasn’t the first, not from Almyra at least. He will not be the last either, now that Fódlan seems to be on a new course to open its doors to the world for the first time in forever. He knows that simply by bringing his attendants with him he is making it easier, more probable for mixed blood children to be born, and that if they are not careful it will end up badly. As much as he thinks he would love for people to be blind to his heritage, he does not really _want_ that.

He, the Padishah, is here in Fódlan, to greet the future ruler and planning to formally apologize, court and finally propose to the _current_ rulers. 

What is he _doing_?

“What _am_ I doing?”

“Bathing.” Darius tips his head back, looking at him in the eye for two seconds before he dumps a bucketful of water on him. At least it is warm. “Doing a terrible job at it, by the way, Padishah.”

“I just wanted to get dressed?” Claude lowers himself in the giant tub, leaving only the upper half of his head above the water. Darius scrubs at his hair with little care, humming some warsong as he does. On the other side of the tub, Rayyan is playing with the water, hiding their body with bubbles and a thin towel -Claude feels like he is being tested. 

Every single one of his attendants is so pretty? It is almost unfair, _almost_, because he has seen his _brother’s_ attendants and he does not _know_ how that man gets through the day without bursting a vessel. And, well, technically he knows he is allowed to _indulge_, but he has had his eyes on a pair of royals on the other side of a mountain for some years now.

Besides, it would feel wrong. With the exception of Dilshad, every single one of them had been handpicked for him and him alone, gifts from his aunts and uncles to the _favorite_ son before the truth of his mother had come out. They had shared his rooms, his meals and his drinks when his family could not, and the idea of doing _anything_ remotely sexual with them feels… No, no, just no.

They are like part of his family by now, close enough they almost know what he is thinking-

“Did you get the snakeskin?” Darius asks, mild as ever, as he mixes a bunch of oils into a bowl. Claude looks at him with wide eyes.

“Can you read minds?”

“You are proposing, yes?”

“Who _told_ you that? Dilshad didn’t, I know Tarja didn’t, Rayyan most definitely did _not_-“ Claude knows he is panicking, only a little, because this is a _secret_. No one is supposed to know, because the first person who knows will tell his eldest brother, who will tell his _sisters_, who will tell _everyone_ in the Golden City and then he won’t be able to step in there again without killing himself. He will be so embarrassed he will jump off a tower, and then his attendants will have to jump in after him, and then _his roc_ will be so mad he will kill everyone else-

Rayyan, quiet as always, slips a gold cup into his hand. Claude downs it. Rayyan refills it, mirth in their eyes.

“It was the maids of Gloucester,” Darius says after a short while of watching Claude panic on Rayyan and his drinks. That _sadist_. He then pours some of the oils on Rayyan’s hair and the rest on Claude’s. “They gossip a lot, the maids. I do not understand much of their language, but I can understand some words. Like your name, Padishah, and mentions of someone running away after proposing?”

Claude looks up- and, yep, that’s Darius’s ‘I’m onto you’ face, deadpan, flat eyebrows and the smallest tilt to his head. To his side, still in the water but now leaning closer (and still very naked, Moon help him), is Rayyan, eyes wide in curiosity and pouring another cup of sweet, sweet calming herbal tea.

It isn’t herbal tea at all. The room is hot, but it should _not_ be hot enough to make him this dizzy. Wow, he hates alcohol. 

“I was bathing-“

“Story time now.”

“I hate you both.”

A week later, they are ready to go. Well, the next morning. And just in time, as Midsummer is right around the corner.

It is a wild day of hectic running, packing, sending people ahead to the city with the larger part of their belongings while keeping the bare minimum with themselves. While all this is going on, Lorenz quizzes Claude on his manners, Faerghus style, as his maid (her name is Julia! She apparently has two other sisters?) measures him and throws thick furs over his clothes.

“Is Faerghus colder than Almyra’s desert at night?” In one break from the constant quizzing, Claude models before the silver mirror, letting the furs fall behind him like Dimitri’s cape. He wishes it _was_ Dimitri’s cape. Julia pins some golden fabric on one side, while Mahsa fixes the embroidery in his cuffs.

“I wouldn’t know, Claude, I haven’t been to Almyra at night.” Lorenz, who has finally given himself a chance to relax, is laying on the bed -Claude’s borrowed bed. He seems to have completely given up on decorum, as he has his arm thrown over his eyes, his ankles _naked_ (how indecent) and is letting Hilda braid his hair with some gold thread. “It is survivable with enough layers.”

“How much is _enough_ layers?” He asks, in his mother tongue this time. Mahsa shrugs at him, as if saying _‘why should I know, Padishah Khalid, I have never been to Faerghus in my life’_, which means he will probably have to ask Dilshad or Darius. Dilshad, probably, as Darius would rather leave him to freeze than help him, because he is just like that.

There is blessed silence for what seems like hours. The only sound is that of Julia clicking her tongue and tossing more fabrics on Claude, of her pins and needles and scissors. It is too good to last.

“Alright. Claude, a Dominic tries to serve you a glass of anything, what do you do.”

“Politely decline, hopefully by saying I have accepted an invitation from… a… Prowell?”

“Wrong.”

It goes on for a few more hours, until Lorenz has to leave to go meet Marianne. Hilda, bless her, does not continue quizzing him.

The following morning they can finally leave

Claude has yet to learn some customs and he is pretty sure he will mess up if there are more than three families present -which there will be-, but he cannot be bothered to care about it right now. He just dresses himself and his cup-bearer in their best golds, tells Mahsa to stop trying to steal puppies for long enough for her to take Rayyan and get in formation, gets on his wyvern (with Hilda sitting behind him, because of course) and gets ready to fly.

Lorenz is supposed to meet them near Charon, with Marianne. Everyone else should already be there, so he is the last person that the royal couple _should_ be waiting for before they can _officially_ start the feast, blood fest, whatever, though Hilda said she is pretty sure they will already have started when they get there.

When they _do_ get there, and thank the Moon for clear skies, he motions his companion to land along with him. Charon is grassy hills and farms, with the main city somewhere farther from where they land. The mountains, their destination, loom like white giants whose heads disappear into the clouds. A great stone archway leads the way up them, yet for a path that is walked every year it does not look safe at all. Claude hopes they don’t have to walk.

The sun is starting to go down already, and Hilda takes them to the carefully hidden stables near the archway. There, Mahsa and the wyverns throw themselves near the fire... and they find Lorenz and Marianne.

Claude is honestly surprised by how _different_ they seem to his eyes. It is just a change of location, yet they have discarded their fine cottons, hidden weapons and most of their usual gear. Instead, they wear thick leathers, high riding boots and layers upon layers of furs. Their weapons are also in proud display to their side, Marianne with a thin sword in a decorated sheath hanging from a braided belt, Lorenz holding a heavy spear in his hand. As Hilda goes to hug Marianne, Claude can see that she also has a sword, though hers is _huge_ and strapped to her back like her axe had been in the past.

How had he not noticed that? He has to take his own weapons from where they are strapped to his wyvern: if this is how things will go, better play along. At least, he is glad he is paranoid enough he is always ready for a fight.

Funnily enough, Julia is also there. She is hiding her knives into her skirts from where she had been doing maintenance on them, quickly as if wanting to pretend she is only a maid. As if anyone could believe that. Rayyan is looking at her with an amused smile.

Lorenz throws Claude a fur cloak once he gets closer.

“It is colder than we were expecting.” He explains, motioning up the path. The clouds look very ominous. “Apparently, it has been storming at times. Charon’s Betrayal, they are expecting snow up in Lions’ Hall later tonight.”

Who is _they_? There is no one here but them. He still puts on the cloak, because what else can he do? Lorenz also hands one to Hilda and Rayyan, and both of them look adorable bundled up on a whole animal’s worth of fur.

“It has been a while, Claude,” Marianne says, and instead of bowing from the distance as she always does, she pulls him into a hug and _gives him a carved rock__._ When in Faerghus, do as Faerghus does?

He doesn’t get much time to think about it, because as soon as everyone is wrapped and warm and ready, they start the slow trek up the mountain.

On foot.

Clearly, they want to die.

They don’t die, but it is close.

Lions’ Hall is a huge building hidden in the middle of nowhere, up in the mountains. It is built in white marble and ash-colored wood, which makes almost impossible for it to be found when surrounded by all this snow. Still, the bonfires burning merrily on the way, crowds of merry people dancing around them, work as a fine enough guide.

Midsummer, right. Even if it is so cold he can feel his blood freezing in his veins. Moon, he wants to go back to Almyra.

The last bonfire they meet is at the feet of a statue. It is… a gravestone, set on a set of stairs, two live-sized people kneeling on the final step, facing each other and holding hands. It is truly monumental, the gravestone, especially compared with the people in the stone and the people merrymaking around it. There are carvings all over the stone too, runes he recognizes from the book but he cannot recognize with the little knowledge he has of them.

“And this is?” Claude leans closer to Hilda as both Lorenz and Marianne go greet the people. They seem to be lesser nobles, or maybe retainers, as they greet each other effusively -yes, even Marianne.

“Blaiddyd’s grave,” Hilda replies in a whisper. And just like that, Claude goes quiet, as he remembers the _other_ thing he has to speak with Byleth and Dimitri about.

Lorenz and Marianne take a while, which Claude spends looking at the runes. It is all ancient writing, no artwork, except for Blaiddyd’s crest every few meters. It is certainly solemn, and well kept: someone down in Charon probably dedicates their life to this.

Finally, the six of them walk into the Hall, where they are met with a drunk Caspar trying to drag Lysithea into a dance. It is the first thing they see, which should have been sign enough of what is expected of today, but Claude tries to ignore the terrible feeling in his gut, because if he focuses too much on the bad things then he will lose sign of what is truly important.

_Dimitri. Byleth._ The child he has yet to meet. _Fixing his mistakes._

Rayyan laughs quietly at his side, as they always do. Claude throws them a glare, but they just blink im pretend innocence.

As they go further in, they are met with their old classmates. Everyone who survived the war is here, in various stages of drunk intoxication. Leonie is wrestling Raphael over in one place, others surrounding them with happy clapping, while Ignatz has claimed a table as his own to sketch everything in sight. Ferdinand has left his usual noble self behind in favor of drinking with Manuela and Dorothea, the three of them singing about long lost lovers. Hannemann is near them, though he seems to be half asleep.

The high table, where Byleth sits holding court with Felix, Sylvain and Annette (_on_ the table, for some reason), takes a whole wall to one side, before the giant throne carved in the mountain wall. They are playing some card game, talking, and Claude really doesn’t want to interrupt that just yet. There is a fire pit burning merrily right before it, that Linhardt and Bernadetta have apparently made their own as they are the only ones sitting near it.

There is a rather huge group gathered around something. Flayn has her hands clasped before her face, and Seteth is looking ahead with a concerned frown. Cyril, next to them, has a bow at the ready for some or other reason, while Mercedes has a heal staff in her hands. Dedue stands to her side, stoic, with Ashe clutching at his arm in what could easily be a crushing grip. Other people, who Claude recognizes as both nobles and minor nobles of Faerghus, are watching whatever is in there with expectant faces.

There is also Alois and Shamir, and Catherine cheering next to them:

_ “Crush him, Petra!” _

“Oh, it started already,” Lorenz says mildly, as if he was commenting on the weather. Marianne rushes ahead, joining the circle looking at _whatever_, and Claude really worries about what he is going to see when they get there.

He didn’t worry enough.

At the end of the hall, there is a wide opening in the wall that leads straight into the mountain. He guesses to get in there, one would need a ladder, which is made of rope and rolled up at their feet making it near impossible for the people down there to get _out_ of there. There are some stones placed a distance from each other, marking an area that has been partly cleaned of snow: it reminds him of history books, pictures of the Colosseum of Enbarr, but less civilized.

Then there is Petra. She is perched atop one of the stones, holding a bow in her hands with a sword stuck in the ground before her. In the snow, she is clearly visible as one of the two spots of color, the other being King Dimitri himself standing at the other side of the marked area.

Between them, pacing wildly in annoyance, is a huge white beast. It is making a sound like the roar of thunder, low and _loud_, that echoes across the mountain and into the Hall almost making the walls tremble.

Lions’ Hall, the building is called. Claude guesses he knows why now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The Golden City_: Inner Ring of the Capital City of Almyra Qazvin (yes, I know, I'll scramble the name later). Basically where the royals and their closest retainers live when they are not in the next continent trying to seduce its rulers.
> 
> _Claude's attendants: Rayyan_ aka the cup-bearer: Exactly what it says in the title: they hold the cup and serve the drinks. Their main duty is to keep Claude from getting drunk in parties and acting as his impulse control when everywhere else (it often fails). Also trained in most anti-assassinations techniques, since their position makes them the one closest to the King when in meetings and banquets; they are Claude's Almyran Hubert. Very pretty, highly respected, might be immune to poisons. The cup-bearer is an historical role.
> 
> _Charon's Betrayal_: A name given to the phenomenom when there is irregular storming for days. Named after the legendary event that murdered Charon, might have happened, might have not.
> 
> _Lions' Hall and Blaiddyd's Grave_: The whole Hall was build on Blaiddyd's command, it was one of his last requests before his death. As his body was never retrieved, _thank you very much_, a symbolic gravemaker was placed close to its entrance with a statue of him and his beloved wife. Not much is known of why the Hall was built, asides from it and the Charon mountains being the traditional place where Faerghi people celebrate Midsummer; considering the mountain is also one of the main habitats of snow lions, it might have been placed there to honor their presence.
> 
> _All these notes on Elites?_: We have one whole AU about Blaiddyd. And I, personally, have one whole AU about all the others. But it is too plotty for this fic, so I'm not bringing it up. Much.


	5. Atonement, or The Reunion at Lions' Hall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we greet Byleth, without messing up! Maybe. Hopefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much Dimitri today, but soon...

Claude watches.

He watches in awe as Dimitri and Petra fight each other and _the lion_, deftly evading one’s strikes and luring them into the other’s. They are _fast_, unusually so, making use of the area’s few footholds to turn and twist. Petra bounces off Dimitri’s arm with her sword in hand, the lion snaps at her with its jaws, Dimitri stabs his lance down in the snow and misses Petra’s leg and the lion’s head by centimeters.

He can’t follow. There is a blur of action down in the arena, roars and yells and the sharp sound of wind being cut in half, and every once in a while they will stop to recover their breaths, but most of the time it is just wild action. Blood splatters on the snow, few droplets that make everyone _ oh! _ and _ ah! _ in excitement, but Claude just feels some vague sense of dread.

Marianne puts a hand in his arm, and a rush of white magic runs through his body.

“Claude?” She looks concerned, like always; however, she is more worried for him than for herself for once. She looks so at ease in here, Hilda to one side keeping people from crowding her too badly, but she is _smiling_, and that is honestly amazing. He wonders if she is also one of those lost Faerghi people, like Lorenz and Hilda, too distantly related to be yet too close to not.

“Sorry, sorry.” He waves a hand, then drops it when Lorenz kicks his foot. Some more blood spills down in the arena. “Just- Wild sight, I guess.”

“It is like this most years.” Lorenz has his eyes glued on the battle, following it _effortlessly_, though his eyes seem to be more focused on the lion. 

Said lion is _huge_, though with the snow around it disguises itself so it doesn’t seem as big. When it raises on two legs and tries to swipe a paw at Petra, though, it towers over her. And by towers, it _doubles her height_, it is positively ridiculous.

Finally, there is a loud noise like heavy wood on stone. Petra hops back, aiming one last arrow at Dimitri’s leg before she sheathes her sword and shoulders her bow, making her way up the ladder that has been unrolled for her. 

Dimitri disengages; just like the lion had done before, he paces at one side of the area, the blade of his lance carving a line in the snow. His actions seem to annoy the lion, for it watches for a second, then crouches and pounces with a cry that is less danger and more playful, and then Dimitri is wrestling with it in the snow.

He is _cooing_. And the lion is just, playfully pawing at him, seriously _what is going on. _

“Well done, Petra!” Catherine is the first one to congratulate their old classmate for the fight with a rough slap on the back. She stumbles, but quickly regains her balance. “Good showing for your first ritual fight, huh, huh, Shamir still did better-“

“I did not, I got tackled and disarmed in half the time-“ Shamir argues back, and takes her arm and pulls her back, probably trying to give Petra some room for herself.

“I did not expect to fight a lion, no.” The Queen of Brigid speaks. Her Fódlan Common is better than it was in the times of war, from the very few times Claude had the chance to meet her in the battlefield: her ‘_s_’ and ‘_h_’s are more distinct from each other, her vowels rounder and she no longer struggles with that one verb placement. “It was entertaining. Dimitri is a good fighter still, I am glad I did volunteer.”

People approach, each congratulating Petra their own way, but Claude only has eyes for Dimitri. He is still down there, playing with the lion, not minding the many wounds he gained from the fight or how he is dirty and muddy and covered in snow. His armor is different, lighter and thinner, and his cape is still heavy fur, but he no longer looks like he is not-quite-there, or like he is barely clinging to reality, which was visible even in the distance back then.

He looks better. Much better.

His hair is a mess. Claude wants to run his hand through it and make it messier, wants to have him looming over him and have no escape, he wants-

(He wants so much.)

For a second, he thinks their eyes meet, and he freezes. Warm. It is so very _warm._

Hilda tugs at his sash, and he swears. Moon above, his language, he is glad no one here seems to know Almyran.

“You’re staring~” His best friend whispers, somehow making it sound teasing and scolding at once. 

Claude immediately turns away from Dimitri (who is now patting down the lion’s fur, probably looking for injuries), looks over to Petra, who is in Flayn’s care as Cyril hands her towels and a change of clothes —no, wait, those are _her _clothes, and the ones she is wearing are the borrowed ones. Makes sense. The crowd has dispersed somewhat, though Catherine is still there with Shamir, and Dedue is waiting by the ladder. There is another person he does not know, a young woman who looks quite a lot like Catherine, though she just holds a sheet of parchment and a piece of charcoal in her hands.

When he meets her eyes, she frowns. She looks at him, and at her parchment, and then at his _eyes_, and makes a mark with charcoal on the skin. There is something about her, something in her clothes that he recognizes, something about how Catherine hovers nearby, about the marks on her cheeks and the bracelets she wears. There is _something_ about the hook and spear she carries that reminds him of that book, of the colorful miniature in the borders of pages and pages of religious and spiritual practices, and-

She makes a sign at him before rolling up her parchment, and he fights the instinct to curse.

Oh. She is the _aruspex._

Claude recoils, if only because this is _Faerghus_, so-called Holy Kingdom, and had Rhea been still alive she would have screamed _heresy_. 

Lorenz grabs his arm and starts tugging him away.

“Let’s go greet Byleth.”

Anything to be away from that.

Greeting Byleth turns out to be just as much of a disaster as Lorenz predicted it would be, if only because Claude becomes a complete _idiot _when in front of them. Forget Felix threatening him, or Ferdinand’s sudden sober presence at their side, or Ingrid showing up from _nowhere _to stop him in his path, or even Lysithea practically warping over to where they are holding court. The one who messes this up is Claude, and Claude has only himself to blame.

On their way there, they got to greet everyone Claude knows from their school days, at least. They all had words to say, mostly ‘long time no see’s and ‘how do you do’s, or ‘I will kill you where you stand’ and ‘if isn’t it a runaway’. Honestly, he was not expecting such vitriol aimed his way, but maybe he should have: he did abandon them with no real explanation when everyone else rallied under a single banner.

He expected this from Lorenz, or Hilda, or maybe Marianne and Lysithea. He left the Alliance clean up to them, and Byleth and Dimitri, but the nobles hadn’t done anything to him except quiz him on obscure and more obscure customs. The Eagles, though…

He doesn’t get it.

Greeting Byleth, though. He lets Hilda and Marianne go first, and they end up making an odd circle with Ingrid and Annette and Lysithea and _ Ferdinand _to gossip. He knows they are gossiping, because they look at people and _giggle_, and Byleth smiles like the Goddess herself watching over her children.

And they look beautiful. Ethereal, even, all soft colors and elegant lines, sleepy movements and gentle eyes. Simple clothes as always, not too heavy and really lose. Their hair is pulled back, braided with leather strips and ribbons like a crown, and it is-

Lorenz’s earring. Marianne’s belt. Hilda’s choker, carefully hidden under the high neck of her coat. Did he miss something?

He surely is missing something.

Eventually, the crowd parts, and he makes his way up. Cyril is now standing beside them, some vague threatening glare in his face, mouthing _ ‘disaster’ _ because clearly that is exactly what Claude needs to hear right now. That he is a disaster, and he messed up, though Cyril probably didn’t even know he messed up so badly until the same time as him.

First thing he needs to do is make culture lessons a must have for all diplomacy related careers. That, and maybe talk some exchange program between Garreg Mach and their own Academy. Maybe. Later.

“Hello, Claude.” Byleth greets him and offers their hand, faux-delicacy expected from royalty and all. When he takes it in his own, a custom he has taken as his own since his years in Fódlan, Byleth twists their hold so they can shake hands. He returns the handshake with a wide smile, but he is disappointed.

Somewhere, someone is laughing at him. It is probably Hilda.

“Hello, Your Eminence. It has been many years, but finally, I return to offer my regards.” Claude winks, just because he can, before taking a step back and bowing his head. “It is a pleasure to meet you again.”

“Likewise, Padishah.” Byleth smiles, very soft, and then stands up to give a slightly deeper bow (Claude’s heart skips a beat). “We must apologize for not attending your crowning ceremony, but Fódlan has been in a delicate situation, as you well know.”

“Indeed? It is quite alright, I also could not come to your own ceremony.” He is already getting tired of everyone’s eyes on him, of the dull words with no meaning, of the protocol, and it has only been a minute at most. He is not used to being so formal, especially not when in front of people who are meant to be _allies_. “I pray you will forgive me for missing so many words and occasions.”

At this, Byleth narrows their eyes. It is subtle, just a slight crease of their eyelids, and probably goes unnoticed by most; however, Claude has trained to read even the smallest changes of expression, and he _sees_. He _sees_, and he knows, and he needs to act fast. Maybe, Byleth is not _angry _at him, but they probably would be if they were a little more emotional, more impulsive, just _more _of a human and less of a deity, as deities do not make mistakes -or so people say.

Without breaking eye contact, Claude reaches for one of the many, many hidden pockets in his clothes. He sees Felix and Ingrid move, some instinctual act at the presumed danger, but Ferdinand and Mercedes are there to stop them. He sees Lorenz, stepping in from behind him so he will stand at his side, and Hilda, smiling at him from the high table; he makes a choice.

“While your forgiveness might not be considered as of yet, I ask that you accept this small gift along with my apologies.” Keeping the tone neutral and steady is hard —this is _ Byleth_, who he loves, might love more than victory or deceit, and all he wants to do is throw himself at their feet. Keeping his _words _in line, following the script written in ancient scrolls and holy texts, is even harder. “It is but a small trinket, but the Moon watches us from even the crudest of eyes, and I wish for your safety when the Stars go dark.”

He gives Byleth the box and then steps back once again to appreciate their reaction. Byleth looks at him for a few seconds, curious, and then looks down at the gift in their hands. They open the box with care, and- and then they just stare.

Claude knows what it is, of course. Hilda and Cyril are hovering, trying to see what exactly is in their Ruler’s hands, and Cyril takes some seconds of his time to look back at Claude and nod. _ Great_, at least someone understands what he is trying to do here.

It is a small mirror, made of polished silver, bone, and moonstone, inside a box made of blackwood. Claude had busied himself making them in his four years in Almyra, thinking of Byleth’s eyes and Dimitri’s voice, carefully crafting them until they were as perfect as he could make them with his own hands. They were a talisman of protection, health and spirituality, sincerity and bravery, and he could not think of two people who deserved them more than these two.

Byleth picks up the mirror, examining it in their hands like a precious child. They turn it this and that way, hold it up to their eyes and closer to the lights, and gently trace the stones with their finger. It is quiet. Everyone’s eyes are still on them. It feels like the whole Hall has suddenly gone mute.

Finally, after what seems like hours, they put it back in the box and bow to Claude.

“I, too, have something to give you, however, I left it back home.” Claude feels air return to his lungs, noise suddenly too loud, his legs weak. _ It got accepted. _ “You will be staying with us for the celebrations, right?”

Byleth straightens and they are smiling and Claude really wants to know how _this person _used to be called the Ashen Demon. They are just so _pleasant_, so beautiful, soft and mild like the Moon’s gaze over the desert; and yet, they are also terrifying, casting spells and throwing punches left and right, sword coming in from behind them whenever they so much as missed a hit.

Claude breathes.

“Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chile sucks. That's all I have to say. Come yell at me in the comments, or at @ ReunLuet in Twitter.
> 
> _Aruspex_: Someone who practices the art of haruspicy, the reading of animal entrails. Although, this one is more of a soothsayer than anything else. She practices many different divination arts. Traditionally, the (h)aruspex is trained since very young, usually chosen from the lands near Charon, and is a little higher in rank to the Count themselves... or, well, they _used_ to be. A representative of one of the many _heretic_ practices of Faerghus and the Alliance, mostly seen in Central Faerghus and Western Leicester, and hidden from casual eye unless in really old and traditional events such as the Midsummer Feast.


	6. Practices, or Did the People I Love Trade Places, I am Confused

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Claude muses on religion, and gets drunk, and also Dimitri shows up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so late, but anyways here is Claude. This is more of a transition chapter, so next is finally Fhirdiad (I didn't think this whole fic through...)

Religion has never been that important to Claude. Sure, it was important in Almyra, and people would regularly pray to the Moon and the Stars for good fortune, but it had never gotten to the point of Fódlan as a whole. Fódlan was ruled by the Church since the ages when the Empire was still the whole continent, and it remained as such until this day.

It is changing, though. Byleth and Seteth are good for the Church, working hard to divide it from the Government and from its stagnant, thousand-year-old tradition. It might take ages, but it is a step forward, starting by freedom of religion.

It is still an odd thing to witness. Leicester, as Claude remembers it from the very few years he lived there, was really _uncaring_ of religious practices. They all claimed to be believers of the Goddess, yet they had never shown the sort of mindless devotion that Faerghus seemed to follow.

It is all a lie, Claude knows now. Faerghus pretended, but its regional divisions and internal conflicts had made their hand shown in religion as well. The country is maybe as divided as Leicester’s politics, when it comes to beliefs; the amount of tiny cults and sects hidden right under the Church’s nose are a sight to behold.

From the Duscurian Rulers of Nature, to the Srenge Guiding Star, to the well hidden Peacekeeper of the Western lands; Claude has heard mentions of them all. They are small mentions, sure, like a plea to peace in Hell when the Church of Seiros made no mention of it in any scriptures. At first, he did not understand, and it wasn’t until reading the book that he could finally make sense of some of the oddest mannerisms from some of his classmates.

Petra, he understands. Shamir as well. Brigid and Dagda had no relationship with Fódlan, they hadn’t for centuries until maybe a few decades back. Cyril as well, at times he would wish well on the Moon. Claude never interacted much with Dedue, but the man was said to be discreet in his worship. But Dimitri, or Sylvain, or even Lysithea? Why would they believe in anything _but_ the Goddess and the Saints of the Church of Seiros?

Maybe they were never followers of the Church of Seiros, at all.

Claude watches warily as Dimitri speaks with the aruspex. He cannot understand anything of Faerghus’ sign language, so he cannot tell what exactly they are talking about, something that makes him uncomfortable. He has always known what people around him are saying, from his lip reading to his wide knowledge of languages, but Faerghus’s sign language is way more intricate than Leicester’s, maybe even more intricate than whatever Rayyan speaks the rare times they have something to say. If their relationship is anything like his with Dilshad, though…

Dilshad has always been with him, since he was young, until he left for Fódlan. In the early years of his childhood he would consult her for everything, and even today it is rare for him to do anything _personal_ without her input. He knows he is pretty disconnected from the world as it is, and even more disconnected from the way of the people, so her advice was, and still is, appreciated. Dilshad is a diviner, though, not a… whatever an aruspex is.

The ‘ritual executioners’ of Faerghus, that is what they are. People who, in the old times, executed prisoners and sacrifices for the sake of whatever is it they believed in. Claude honestly had not expected something that _history_ made seem like an ancient thing, today in the present day. It makes him confused, even more confused than anything _Fearghus _ever did.

At least, Byleth is still the same. Byleth grew up outside of the Church and their beliefs were always an odd mix of whatever odd cult and sect they had seen when younger. Now, they are closer to the Church, but in an odd way that is a little more _ancient_ than everyone else. Seteth and Flayn are much the same, so he assumes it has to do with whatever Zanado is, was, used to be.

Still confusing as all the Stars, though.

They don’t get to greet Dimitri before Lorenz is dragging him to another table, off to the side where Ferdinand, Petra, a man who looks a little like Shamir, a woman with white hair and dark skin, Sylvain and another red headed man are just talking about something. Representatives of the Adrestian territories, of Brigid, Dagda… Duscur, he guesses, and also Sreng, apparently; he, then, as representative of Almyra, fits right in. Lorenz sits by his side, probably representing Leicester.

The table is made of stone, perpendicular to the high table where Dimitri is now heading toward. It is tall, with seats of hardwood that keep Claude’s feet from touching the ground, and carved with so many tiny runes he would have a hard time decoding them. There is little food served; it is mostly drinks, and high goblets of metal, except for the small cups painted colorfully before the Srenge duo.

Rayyan stands behind him, as does Julia behind Lorenz. There is a girl standing between Sylvain and the redhead, but apart from them they seem to be the only attendants at this table. This is good enough.

The unknown redhead looks at him through narrowed eyes before leaning in to say something to Sylvain, and then Sylvain turns to Claude —they are all sitting at the same side of the table, back to the stone walls and facing the fire pits scattered through the room— and gives him a small bow.

“Padishah Khalid Afshar,” okay, he should have expected that, but maybe not from Sylvain. “May I introduce you to my uncle, Khan Erden, of the Southern territories.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Khan Erden,” he gives a bow back, shallower than he probably should, but he is a _king_, and a Khan is only a clan head. “Hope your skies were clear on the road. I am Khalid, from Almyra.”

The man squints at him some more before smiling. He is probably older than he looks, possibly older than most people here, but he looks like he could crush a rock with his bare fists like any other person from Sreng Claude has ever met —Sylvain excluded. The man- Erden, right, is this the one who killed his wife or is that another one, he raises his cup towards Claude and Claude, following tradition, lifts his goblet at him.

“_Mari, _Padishah. You are a good king, I hear. I am glad you aim for peace.” The Khan, the _warlord_ says, accent rough and melodic; like Sylvain, when he doesn’t bother to hide, or like the merchants of the north who visited Garreg Mach. The man then looks away, towards Dimitri, towards the reason of this gathering, and Claude lowers his goblet.

Rayyan takes a sip of it, then gives his shoulder three taps. Alcohol, too strong for Claude’s tolerance. Alright, guess he is not drinking it.

But Dimitri is lifting his own goblet, standing before the many people and the many fires, looking like the Hero of legend at the end of his quest, looking like a mirage in the desert or a statue of all ideals. Dimitri stands, and everyone follows, Claude included. Dimitri moves, and Claude’s eyes follow his arm, the way the muscles ripple under his clothes, the way his eye seems to see every single one of them and no one at all, the way his gaze settles on Claude with a small smile before looking away.

“My friends,” Dimitri begins speaking, voice overpowering the thunder outside. Tempest King he is, and Tempest he feels like, blanketing everything around him in both safety and dread. “Midsummer is a time we celebrate the gifts of the land and those we have long lost, as they are one and the same. The dead grant us their souls for peace, and peace is what we have right now. In Fódlan, and with our neighbours too!”

There is a roar, a cheer, loud voices that echo in the stone chambers almost like the wind through glass through autumn. It is happy, it is contagious, and Claude cheers along with people toasting to the good of Faerghus.

“Today we gather to feast for a good future, for the wellbeing of those that have departed and wait for us in the Hall of the Skies, and for the sake of those who protect us and ours. Today, we feast in the name of companionship.” Dimitri takes a gulp from his goblet, and people around them do the same. Claude sips at the drink, cautious; he would not mean to offend the King anymore than he already has. It is sweet, too sweet, definitely worrying. “Today we feast, and yet tomorrow we go back to our duties, let us forget the divisions of rank and status for this night. For we are all people of the Earth, and we are all worth the same in the sights of those who watch over fate.”

_“Don’t you dare,”_ Rayyan signs on Claude’s arm as he goes to take another drink. He ignores it, because Dimitri looks like a deity walking on earth, and he will drink to that. Drink to Dimitri’s words and Dimitri’s safety, and Byleth’s acceptance and Byleth’s happiness.

“Now, my friends,” Dimitri raises his goblet again. “For ourselves.”

Claude drinks, and drinks again, and by the time Dimitri has wandered to his side he feels a little too warm and dizzy. His tolerance to alcohol has always been _terrible_, but he doesn’t really feel like stopping right now. Will he mess up? Probably. Will he care? Later.

“Claude— or is it Khalid now?” Dimitri sits at his side, and Claude doesn’t really care much about how everyone else seems to move away. Dimitri is _big_.

“Either one is fine,” he says, reaching for Dimitri’s hand to grasp it tightly. He feels the hand squeeze his own, a strong hold that could probably snap him in half, and then Dimitri is twining their fingers together _like it is completely normal._ Rayyan makes a rather distressed word against his shoulder. “Claude, for you.”

“Claude then.” Said Claude is distantly aware of the dozens of eyes looking their way, and of the cheery folk music starting up from somewhere, and of Byleth’s whole existence; he is, however, acutely aware of Dimitri’s hand holding his own, of the King’s thumb pressing against his pulse, of the warmth in his face and neck and below. He is so aware of it, he takes another big gulp of his drink, and pretends Rayyan’s frantic tapping on his back is just a bug. “I believe we have things to discuss, but I don’t think this is the place or time for it.”

“Right, later then.” The proposal, and the new proposal, and the treaty between Almyra and Fódlan that will hopefully hold for a few generations. Hubert’s letter that Claude has been trying to forget about for the past four years. The hand on his own. “I saw you fighting a lion, I thought I was dreaming at first.”

“Well, it _is_ the New Year, as you know.” 

They are standing now, walking in the opposite direction of the crowds, towards a gap in the walls that lead to the snow. Claude is pretty sure he is skipping like a dozen steps of a formal apology, and another dozen of a meeting between two leaders of different countries, but he can’t really be bothered to care. Dimitri was _so cute_ in the Academy, back when he followed the protocols of nobility like they were a lifeline, but Claude’s last memory of him is of that day in Derdriu: impulsive, strong, _fearsome_, a weapon of war powered by emotions so deep they could never be taken out of the man. It made sense, in some way, that Dimitri wouldn’t worry about his words _right now_: he had established himself as the King, now he is building his place as a _friend_.

Claude had thought that it would be the other way around, with Dimitri sticking to the formalities of the meeting, while Byleth took a more personal approach, but they have surprised him once again. Then again, Byleth had had those _odd_, anachronistic moments all their life, if the mercenaries are to be believed: they would slip into an attitude more fit of a deity than a mercenary at times, distant and floating, as if looking at the world from a different lens. That, and Byleth’s position in the world was not as steady as Dimitri’s, and the impression they gave to others had to be that of the Church instead of _Byleth_.

“Ah, yes. New Year, when people fight lions for sport—“

“It is an honored divination practice of our ancient nation, followed for many centuries. It is also a way to bond with our guests and to show off as many Faerghi do, hello Balor, this is Claude, I have told you about him.”

Claude finds himself unable to look away from the gigantic white lion in front of him, even as Dimitri brings their hands, still twined together, to pet it. It is _soft_, so soft, and also _terrifying_.

Just like Dimitri, in many ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have returned! Life has been rough, but I hope you are all staying safe, I have been kind of dissociating for the past months which doesn't help me at all with school. Also I hop from fic to fic, but this is kind of my relaxing go-to, because it is fun. Please keep leaving comments, I love them and they always cheer me up. Come poke me @ ReunLuet in Twitter if you want to talk!
> 
> _Ships?_: We are focusing only on the disaster triad right now, but I am nothing if not a shipper and you will see lots of hinted couples around. Someone successfully guessed the LoreHildaMari, but I will leave most of them open to interpretation because I am just like this.
> 
> _Headcanons_: worldbuilding is what I live for and, if you have read my other fics, you probably realized that my headcanons apply to all of them. I am really happy so many people have adopted the whole 'Lorenz and Felix are distantly related' headcanon, and I also really want to go deeper into the madness that is the Treatise. Also, yes this is Sreng Gautiers, but if _anyone_ can guess what my two greater inspirations for Sreng are then I will give you a prize (people who know me irl don't count).
> 
> _Byleth and Dimitri_: yes they traded places for this meeting, with Byleth being overly formal and Dimitri being the opposite, they did this for Reasons, most of which involve confusing Claude and other people.


	7. And now, for something Completely Different (or, an Interlude)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Special Guest!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say Fhirdiad? I meant Sothis.

On the highest point of Lions’ Hall, a girl sits looking out to the mountains. She is wrapped in heavy wool and soft furs, similar to the clothes her other half wears, but their appearances could not be more different; not that anyone would care much, as she is invisible to all mortals, and she was never one to worry about her appearance outside of making sure her hair was off her eyes. She still worries, though, because if someone were to catch a glimpse of her while out in public, she is not sure she could bear it if she did not look perfectly disheveled as she always does, or if she looked too much like her physical heart.

Outside, it is cold, as is Midsummer in Faerghus since times long gone. The mountains of Charon, smaller now that back when she walked the earth, were like towers that aimed for the skies, white giants of snow and hail that marked the natural border between Faerghus, Leicester and Zanado. Thunder roars in the distance, the one betrayed that gave name to the land mourning their death as every year, while the betrayer laughed while soaring the skies.

She misses them, Charon and those children and her own children who chased after them, but she doesn’t miss them enough for her to want to go back. Fódlan has progressed beyond the need for her constant watch, which pleases her more than it should. As much as she loves the land, she is also _tired_, has been tired for many years, and now she just wants to watch her other half’s life without having to think about it.

Her other half’s life is such a drama, Sothis just wants to know when are they releasing the books.

She looks around, at the world, at Faerghus, at the people. They are so very happy, their voices surging into eternity as they dance around their fires, celebrating their survival of yet another year to some, the midpoint of the year for others, mortals never did manage to settle on a single calendar.

Most importantly, they are all healthy, and _free_.

“Your children did well,” she tells the statue at the entrance of the Hall. Blaiddyd and his wife, Areadbhar and her husband; both her children, one by blood, the other by choice, but _hers_ in the end. “You would be happy to see how far they have come, daughter.”

She feels the land pulse in response, a lance sinking further into her personal dream, a dream world where people fought not for survival, but for fun. A dream that seemed so far away all those centuries ago, and now is a reality.

Charon mourns and laughs once again, and Sothis steps off the building’s roof and back to Byleth’s side.

“Your King has been stolen, it would seem.”

And it is true, a little bit. From where she sits on the backrest of Byleth’s chair, Sothis can see Riegan’s child struggling with Balor (who, unaware of his own size, keeps trying to climb on people’s laps), while their King holds his hand and speaks quietly. She will not spy on the conversation, but she _is_ interested —Byleth’s life is a drama, after all, and what is the point of a drama if she can’t know what the other parties are thinking?

_“It is just Claude,”_ Byleth says, nodding at Cyril as they sip from the refilled goblet. The two of them, and the boy, are the only ones still on this side of the Hall, prefering to watch the others mingle instead of joining in. Neither of them was much to socialize_. “If it was anyone else, I would do something about it, but it is just Claude.”_

“If you don’t do something, your King of Safeya—“

_“Almyra, Sothis. It is Almyra.”_

“—King of Almyra, he will steal your husband away.”

Byleth looks at the mirror they were gifted, then back at the two royals. Dimitri’s hand keeps drifting to the bell dangling from his belt, next to a dagger that is meant to be Claude’s and the lock of soft white fur from Balor’s mane; he is nervous, maybe even more nervous than when he proposed to Byleth, and this is no proposal. It is just a friendship offering for now, and maybe it will remain a friendship offering: who knows if Claude would accept them, after so long?

_“We talked about it.”_

Sothis clicks her tongue, reaching for the goblet and duplicating it in her own hand. She will drink to this disaster. “This is a mess.”

_“It is just life.”_

“You are right.”

The two of them, and Cyril, continue watching the scene. Most people, maybe scared away by Balor’s presence and the cold coming from outside, had left the two alone in the lion’s alcove. Dedue stands next to the opening in the wall, arms crossed, a bodyguard steady as stone; Claude’s own shadow (“A Silent One!” _“So, an assassin.” _“Counter-assassin, but yes. Definitely dangerous.” _“What if we make Yuri fight them—“ _“Byleth!”) mirrored Dedue’s stance, fingers drumming some beat against their arm.

It might take a while for Dimitri to get anywhere.

“...Actually, how he is acting? Reminds me a lot of Blaiddyd, back in the old ages,” Sothis whispers, tone _almost_ scandalized. It does remind him a lot of her daughter’s awkward courting, when Blaiddyd would gift her a dozen weapons before asking her out on a walk, or when Areadbhar would try to pull him into a dance through telling him it would help in battle. “That man also couldn’t be open with himself, see, so he would take _hours_ to say even the smallest words—“

Byleth leans on their chair, letting the sound of Sothis’s voice fill their senses. The story comes out through short laughs and giggles: the courtship of a battle-obsessed immortal dragon and a battle-obsessed mortal leader, that lasted years before it could bear fruit. They hope it won’t take years for _this_ courtship, though.

They will be fine.

They will be _just_ fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Safeya_: Almyra, but a thousand of years ago.
> 
> _The Ashen Wolves_: They are at the Monastery right now, but they definitely exist.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh Lorenz I love you so much. Also yes this is NB Byleth. Child might or might not be Byleth’s biological child, don’t think about it too much.
> 
> Come bother me in Twitter @ ReunLuet!


End file.
